Chapter 39 #3
At this same time, Tadeo finally twitched, and he tilted his massive head to the side.
He almost hadn’t felt it, but there was a person there, pulling at a wing of his.
A woman, beautiful, coated in ash and blood, her hair falsely blonde, her roots dark, her face streaked with tears that kept pouring out from her.
She panted: “Tadeo— Please help! Help Joana! She was running north!” He trembled.
He could see his grandfather’s face, his uncle’s face.
His father. ‘Joana.’ He had to see her too.
He inched forward, but his stomach lurched, and so did his skin.
He took another step, and when he heard the voices of others urging him, he forced himself to take another.
‘Father.’ And grandfather. Uncle. Cousins.
Dante. Mother. Half a child again, dreaming of being put to sleep.
Joana climbed up to the top, grabbed onto the angel statue’s neck, then she called out: “Whoever you’re looking for, it’s me!
” All around her, the war raged, and the clash continued.
Some criminals and soldiers defecting together to fight alongside the civilians.
At the end of time — everything she'd ever wanted.
Azazel saw her, and he breathed out slow, thinking of his child, remembering all the fury of the infant's death that Satan and Michael were responsible.
Twirling his spear, he felt anger boil over his heart, and he lifted his weapon high over his head, and he clenched his teeth.
‘Revenge.’ So cold that he was numbing. ‘Finally.’ At last. But before he could throw it, Samyaza suddenly lunged at him.
“Agh—!” he cried out, twisting, looking wildly at Samyaza, grappling his arms. “What are you doing?!”
“Stop!” Samyaza rasped weakly, then hiccuped. “Stop. Please stop.”
“What?” Azazel panted. Then, more frantic: “No.”
“Child,” Samyaza forced out, raw voice scraping up his throat. “Not children. Enough. Please.” And then he whispered, “My children. Yours. Naamah.”
Naamah? Who was Naamah? A child, from the flood, curly-haired, weak, starving. Azazel’s eyes widened, and his breath fell from his mouth. “Don’t say that name. What are you doing? I have to—”
“I saw them dead,” Samyaza forced out. “Naamah. Your husband. My wife. They were all dead. Their families. Naamah with a knife in hand. Dead. All of them.”
Azazel’s muscles tensed. “Samyaza—” A barrage of memories struck at him — cold water, rain, warmth of falling in love, death, family. “Why this, why now?” And his face stung, and his eyes burned.
Satan shot at Michael's face, the bullet bursting through the prince's jaw, the force sending him back a step.
And, just as the prince tried to steady, the devil yelled out without words like an animal in blood-red anger, and he shot once more; this time, the prince fell, onto a knee.
Blood spluttered from his mouth thickly, coating his silver chest plate in red.
As the devil huffed for breath, he took a few steps toward Michael, gun raised still, unflinching.
He set the revolver under Michael's chin, forced up his mangled face.
The prince's eyes were wide, furious, yet tired.
‘I know what it's like to be tired, Michael.’ Satan, quietly, said, “You can't kill me.”
“End it then,” gurgled Michael. “End me, and the end times will stop.”
Lucifer was quiet, staring, listening to the wind hiss. Demons were watching — Baal and all those hidden in the walls. “It's already ended, Michael.” He lowered the gun. “You've lost.”
Michael said again, “Kill me.”
“No,” said Satan. “Neither of us will die. Even when you turn on God, you seek to sacrifice yourself. But I won't let you, you stupid God-damned martyr. You will face what you've done. You will suffer what you deserve.”
“Kill me!” Michael shouted, angry, mangled face twitching in fury. “End it!”
“No,” said Satan again, matching his anger with a hiss. “We will end it. Together.” Like they had been born, together.
Though Samyaza held Azazel, and Azazel no longer found the words to order Joana’s death, as if they'd traded places, as if Azazel was the one who'd been broken, who couldn't speak— the other Watchers descended like animals, aiming, hurling their spears.
Kokabiel — grinning. Baraqiel — empty. Danel — determined.
The first cut through Joana's side, and just as she lost hold of the statue, crying out, another spear went through her abdomen, then another.
A fourth cut through her chest. For a flicker, her eyes were wide, then calm.
Joana fell slow, torn apart, thinking of a river, thinking of her family, of Tadeo, and even Lupina.
The last thing she heard was the raging war, and she saw Tadeo, and Lupina, who were looking up at her.
She noticed her brother, slumped; perhaps, dead too.
Then, she allowed the darkness to bleed in.
She fell. She was dead before she hit the ground, but there was a touch of relief on her face.
Catharsis. Something like victory for once in her life.